


Clara and the Marquis

by infinite_regress



Series: Lagradil Tales [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Jealousy, Mild Threat, One Shot, Romance, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 17:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12393234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_regress/pseuds/infinite_regress
Summary: Clara's plan to make the Doctor jealous goes horribly wrong.





	Clara and the Marquis

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Choosing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12325311) by [infinite_regress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_regress/pseuds/infinite_regress). 



> A prequel to The Choosing.

“Are you sure don’t want to dance?” Clara asked the Doctor, hoping against hope that this time he would say yes. He’d brought her to the great walled city of Lagradil, at the height of the Second Harkoan Empire, where the music was the finest in the galaxy and the Festival of Lights was about to begin. 

They were in a mighty open air ballroom, with a dancefloor of fine wooden panelling, and lamp after lamp strung between fluted marble pillars. At one end of the ballroom, on a raised dais, musicians played string instruments resembling satirs. A flautist’s melody danced on the air, and it seemed to Clara that the sound was a live thing fluttering in her chest.

The Doctor glanced in her direction, his pale blue eyes holding hers a moment longer than was comfortable, as they so often did, and then flitting away around the room. 

“It’s going to be quite a night,” he said. “This is the best place in the sector to see the pyrotechnics. And some of those instruments go back to the First Empire. Exquisite examples of Lagradil’s musical craftsmanship.” He flashed a grin. “I wouldn’t mind a closer look.” He took off across the dance floor with long strides. 

Clara sighed, her fingers smoothing the folds of fabric in her long blue dress. “Nothing else here you like the look of, I suppose?” she grumbled at his back. There had been a moment, back in the TARDIS as she stepped into the console room, that he seemed dangerously close to uttering a compliment. But he coughed, averted his eyes, and when she took his arm he stared straight ahead, not sparing her a second glance. 

Clara trailed after him, around the edge of the dance floor, carefully weaving past couples dancing to the elegant music. She watched wistfully as a finely dressed Lagradilian man bowed low and offered his hand to a woman in a shimmering dress the colour of starlight. The woman smiled, and with a delighted flourish took his hand, and in a moment she was swept away across the dance floor. 

Clara sighed, and wished, not for the first time, that the Doctor would sweep _her_ away like that. Or at the very least offer a friendly dance. Deep down, Clara craved moment on the dance floor, gliding along with the music. Was it really too much to expect?

A voice at her shoulder startled Clara. “How is it that the most beautiful woman in all Lagradil is not dancing?” 

Clara laughed. “When you find her, be sure to ask.” She turned towards the owner of the voice, and was startled all over again. A man, about her own age, with ebony eyes and raven hair, bowed low. He wore a dark suit, with cufflinks that shone like diamonds. And perhaps they were diamonds, because the way he held himself, from his high cheek bones to his polished shoes, screamed old money. 

“I _have_ found her,” the man insisted. 

Clara blushed, looking at the Doctor, who was deep in conversation with a musician just off stage, admiring the woman’s instrument. She offered him the chance to hold it, which he took with reverence, stroking its smooth body, following the grain of the wood with his long fingers. Clara forced the thought of those fingers ministering to her far from her mind.

“My friend is busy,” she said, watching glumly as the Doctor laughed with the musician.

“I fear your friend has focused his attention in the wrong direction,” the man said. His voice was smooth, but his eyes were sharp, and Clara had to admit the dashing young man wasn’t wrong. She sighed. What it _would_ take to get the Doctor’s attention?

“I am the Marquis de Winter,” said her new friend. “I would be honoured to discover your name.”

Clara tore her eyes away from the Doctor. “I’m Clara. Tell me, Marcus, would you like to dance?”

The man’s face registered surprise. “I don’t believe a woman has ever asked me to dance before.” He smiled, as if enthralled, but his wide grin hardly registered with Clara, who turned her eyes back to the Doctor.

The Doctor glanced their way, and with that, Clara grabbed Marcus’ arm. “Well it’s high time someone made a move,” she said, slightly louder than necessary. 

Clara twirled with her new partner onto the floor. He could certainly dance. Clara had to admit to a burst of satisfaction at the Doctor’s surprised look as they stepped in time to the music. Even though Clara was unfamiliar with the style, Marcus lead her skilfully.

“You’ve had an education in dancing,” Clara noted.

“The finest in the land.” His eyes bored into hers. “How is it that we have not met?”

“Oh, we’re visitors. Just here for the music and the fireworks,” Clara said.

Marcus laughed. “Who knows.” His hands on her waist pulled her closer. “Perhaps you will like it so much, you’ll never want to leave.” 

Clara laughed, a little stiffly, and tried to ease back. A dance was just a dance, but this Marcus was starting to feel a little intense, with his ebony eyes and his shock of dark hair. 

Her eyes sought the Doctor, and now the musician he had been talking was shaking her head, and the Doctor was frowning, and suddenly this didn’t seem such a good idea after all. 

“Ah, thanks,” Clara said, her attention jerked back to the intense young man who held her so firmly in his grip. “Marcus Winters, did you say?”

“The Marquis de Winter,” he supplied, and he nodded once at a boulder of a man standing at the side of the dance floor, who Clara hadn’t noticed before. 

“I should probably get back to my friend,” Clara said, her heart skittering now. The Marquis tightened his grip on her waist, and swung her away from the stage and across the room. 

The music sped up, it’s tempo changing from graceful to a faster, driven beat, and the Marquis swung Clara around with purposeful verve, until she was flushed, even a little breathless, but undeniably having fun. 

As they danced on, Clara tried to snatch a glance of the Doctor. In the spot where he had been, now only the musician stood, clutching her instrument to her chest. 

“That’s odd. Where’s the Doctor?” 

“Ah,” said the Marquis. “I saw him a moment ago talking to the Chief of Ceremonies.”

“Oh,” Clara said, a little deflated. When she’d gone to the trouble of making the Doctor jealous, he might at least have the decency to notice. 

Clara and the Marquis danced on, and her disquiet grew after another lap of the dance floor and no Doctor. 

“Perhaps he had things to do,” the Marquis said, noting her searching the room for the Doctor. 

“He wouldn’t leave me!” Clara exclaimed, her heart fluttering now, but not with the pleasant tickle of flirtation she’d felt before. This was a darker feeling, in the pit of her stomach. 

“I can send one of my people to look for him, if you’re concerned. Wouldn’t want him to miss the fireworks.”

Clara nodded. She was letting her imagination run wild. The Doctor wandered off all the time. He was the king of wandering off. The only question was what kind of scrape he’d get himself into this time. No reason for her to be worried, she told herself. None at all. 

Clara expected the Marquis to retire after the next song ended, but he didn’t let her go. She began to notice the eyes of the crowd on her. The gentleman gave them a wide berth, and a few of the younger the ladies wholesome smiles towards the Marquis became barely concealed frowns when they landed on Clara. 

“I fear the rest of the party think I’m monopolising you,” Clara said.

“I do not care for the rest of the party,” the Marquis said. “I have eyes only for you.” 

Clara flushed. It was all very flattering, but the Marquis’ intense gaze unnerved her. 

“I think I’ll go look for my friend now,” she said, extracting herself from his grip. “We really can’t stay.”

The Marquis smiled. “Of course.” He bowed low, full of grace, stepped backwards, and offered his hand. Clara extended hers, and he raised it to his lips. His eyes trapped hers, and she almost, but not quite, failed to notice his thumb pressing her palm. Hard.

Clara blinked at the Marquis. His whole body stuttered before her eyes, rapidly coming in and out of focus like an old fashioned movie film.

“My dear...” His words stretched out before her, trailing from his mouth to her ears in a long, slow stream of disjointed syllables. “...you look suddenly pale. Allow me to assist you.” His tone was a drifting melody, and it wasn’t really unpleasant. 

But his eyes were dark, so very dark. 

“What have you done?” Clara’s mouth became dry, her words dusty, and anger rattled in her throat. “Have you given me some sort of date rape drug? Because I promise you’ll be sorry you were ever born...” 

“Please.” The Marquis looked truly offended. “I would never...I am the Marquis de Winter. I don’t need to force women to my bed. You don’t need to worry. I won’t harm you.” 

“To hell with you.” Heat flooded through Clara, her throat cracked, time tumbling away as she hung tight to the threads of her life. “I want the Doctor,” she said faintly. “I need the Doctor.” 

“You’ll soon forget about him, Clara,” the Marquis replied. Without having seemed to move, he was suddenly next to her, up close, steadying her, guiding her towards a seat at the edge of the dance floor. 

Things were too loud and too bright. Her palm stung. Her head throbbed. At the edges reason, she knew the Marquis had done something. Given her something. Was it important? She didn’t know. Clara shook her head, but nothing made sense. 

“Where am I?”

“Lagradil, of course. On the eve of the Choosing,” he said, and then went on quietly, “And this choice suddenly got a lot more interesting.”

“Lagradil.” The word was like honey on Clara’s tongue. “Have I been here long?”

“Very soon you’ll feel like you’ve lived here your whole life.”

“Of course.” Clara laughed, because it seemed silly to imagine anything else. Where else would she be? 

The Marquis de Winter smiled, and his eyes were as black as the raven. “My sweet Clara. You don’t need a doctor, do you?”

“A doctor? Of course not. I feel perfectly fine.” The fireworks bloomed in the distance, filling the sky with a sparking gold chrysanthemum of light. It seemed perfectly wonderful to Clara that she should be sat here, with the Marquis de Winter, on this most magical of nights. 

“Oh,” said the Marquis, “it’s just there was a chap asking for you earlier. I thought he looked quite mad. Old. Scraggy grey hair. Said his name was the Doctor.”

Clara couldn’t imagine why a grey haired man would be asking after her, so she shrugged an indifferent reply. 

“Doctor who?” said Clara, before turning back to enjoy the fireworks.

 #

The Doctor sat up abruptly, jolted to consciousness with a sickening lurch. He realised many things in the blink of an eye it took him to surface. He had a lump on the back of his head the size of Glasgow, which had the virtue of most likely leaving his attacker confident of his demise. He was in a forest, miles out from where he’d last been, with no TARDIS, no coat, and worst of all, no Clara.

This was his fault. She had been trying to tell him she needed something from him. A look, a touch, a word. 

Three words, probably. 

Little ones. 

But he’d been foolish and afraid, and now it might be too late. The Choosing was today. The musician had told him all about it. He didn’t have to be a mind reader to know de Winter wanted Clara.

As the Doctor picked himself up, and began the long trek back to Lagradil he realised something else. He was furious. If one single hair on Clara’s head came to harm, then he would rain hell and destruction on the Marquis de Winter. 

The distant music of the lyre and sitar urged him on, and under that, the pulsing thrum of the distant drums and the pounding of his own hearts.

Why hadn’t he danced with Clara when she so clearly wanted him to? People always think they have time, don’t they? Well, he should know better than anyone that time always runs out. 

If he let it. 

The deepest resolve can bloom in the shadow of regret. With determination in his hearts, the Doctor ran through the forest. There would be a choosing today, but it would not be the Marquis de Winter. The Doctor would find a way to dance with Clara, he’d choose her a billion times over if he got the chance. And perhaps, if fortune smiled, and the wind was in the right direction, Clara would also choose him

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to know how Clara escaped from the Marquis, then read the linked story "The Choosing"


End file.
